The Spike (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 4) Read online

  “It’s a popular option for patients who don’t have or can’t provide proof of insurance.”

  “I…Can I think about this, at least?”

  “Yes, sir. If you pay the base charges and sign for the rest. But after thirty days your bill goes into default, so don’t take too long.”

  There wasn’t much more to say after that. I told Amanda to hang tight while I got the car, helped her toddle out to it, then pulled out of the hospital driveway and towards Arlington. We were both quiet. My mind was busy churning over the jaw-dropping amount of the bill and what we could do about it. I didn’t realize that my silence must’ve seemed to Amanda like anger. The first clue I had was a sniffle from the passenger seat.

  “I’m sorry I put you in this spot, Marty,” she said, holding back tears. “I…don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’ll pay you back. I can get a loan, maybe—”

  “Huh?” I said, surprised, then waved the idea away when I understood what she was getting at. “Take it easy. I’m not mad, I’m just trying to figure out how to fix the problem.”

  “It’s so much money,” she said in a whisper.

  “We can figure this out. I know a few crack dealers I can put the squeeze on, maybe catch a couple of bank robbers and turn them in for the reward money. Stuff like that.”

  “It’s not a joke,” she said, angry. “Quit making it a joke.”

  “Sometimes it’s the only way to get through the bad spots.”

  “I know, and usually it helps, but not this time, okay?” she said. “I already felt like shit that I’m living hand to mouth and this is just the icing on the cake. It’s not something I can laugh about.”

  We were quiet. Amanda’s voice had been raw and angry. I gave her a minute, then tried again.

  “Remember that time I was afraid they were going to remove my colon and that I’d have to poop in a bag for the rest of my life? And how I thought maybe I could learn to live with it as long as I had a signal or a catch phrase I could use if things got out of hand?”

  Amanda bit her lip.

  “Like saying, the cat’s in the bag as a courtesy when we were out at a restaurant. Or fire in the hole! after a burrito at Julio’s.”

  Amanda turned towards the window, trying to look mad. But her shoulders were shaking.

  “Then there was that time I asked the doctor how big a bag it had to be and if I’d need to upgrade for things like the Super Bowl or Thanksgiving.”

  A guffaw slipped out and she put her head in her hand. “My God, you’re a middle-aged third grader. I don’t want to laugh and then I do anyway.”

  “I try to use my powers wisely.”

  She groaned and put her head back, closing her eyes. “Seriously, Marty. What am I going to do?”

  “We are going to find a way to deal with this, that’s what.” I stalled her protest. “I’m not just blowing smoke. And I’m not being charitable. We’ll get past this, but you’re going to have to take a serious look at your job. I know FirstStep doesn’t have any budget to speak of, but as long as health care costs a freaking mint, getting insurance is going to be a must-have. Either FirstStep provides some benefits, pronto, or you’ll have to find another job.”

  “The chances of me getting mugged again are almost zero,” she said, as if that solved the problem. “That guy isn’t coming back.”

  “You don’t know that. Even putting that aside, what happens if you get mono? Trip on the rug and break your other arm? Or just get the flu? There’re plenty of things you need insurance for and most don’t include playing the bouncer at a women’s shelter.”

  She didn’t say anything. Which meant, hopefully, that she was at least giving it a thought.

  “Speaking of which, who was this asshole who busted through the door?”

  She sighed. “He was wearing a ski mask, if you can believe it, but we’re sure it was Karla’s boyfriend, the guy I told you about the other day. She’s staying at FirstStep while we try to find her a long-term situation. He knew she was there and just tried to bull his way in.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Danny Fincher.”

  “Got an address for him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Maybe at work. Why, you gonna break some kneecaps?”

  “Maybe. A stern talking-to and wagging my finger has also worked in the past.”

  She got serious. “I don’t want FirstStep getting any bad press, Marty. Believe me, I’d love it if someone put this guy in his place, but Karla will be gone soon and the police know he’s there…”

  “I’m not going to shoot him and dump him in the river, for Christ’s sake. But I think it would be handy to know who he is and where he lives. Forewarned is forearmed, you know. And, sure, if he tries something stupid again, he might find me waiting for him back at his apartment.”

  “For a stern talking-to?”

  I shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll break his kneecaps.”

  Chapter Six

  “May I ask what happened to change your mind, Mr. Singer?” Paul Gerson looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “You were quite adamant that you had no interest in taking the case when last we spoke.”

  I squirmed in my seat. Gerson’s office at Schneider, Leonidas, and Humboldt Investments was outfitted in the latest Scandinavian Modern and the chair I was sitting in felt like it was made of glass and steel like the rest of the place. A bright autumn sun shone through a twenty-foot-high cathedral window, giving me a nice view of the Potomac as it was seen from the Paper Mill Building in Georgetown, but it lit Gerson’s work space in stark, clinical whites. The rooms and hallways smelled of manufactured scents with three names, like “Clean Cotton Linen” and “Blue Caribbean Spice.” Not my idea of professional comfort.

  I sighed internally. I wasn’t being honest with myself. Gerson’s place of business might have all the charm of the tools on a dentist’s tray, but it wasn’t the decor that was making me uncomfortable. Or even the sight of the guy, a polished, late-thirtysomething WASP with a raft of diplomas from St. Alban’s, Yale, and Stanford, whose ease using phrases like “when last we spoke” attested to his wealth and breeding.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” I said. “Some personal issues, some latent guilt, the need to see justice done. The usual cocktail.”

  Gerson’s face stiffened. “Wendy’s death isn’t a matter for joking, Mr. Singer.”

  I paused. “I apologize. Your sister deserves better than that.”

  He inclined his head. Apology accepted. “I’m afraid I have to press the question. Would you mind telling me what your personal reasons are?”

  I hesitated. I’d realized on the way to this meeting that Wendy Gerson’s death might be a welcome relief to the anxiety I’d been feeling about my checkup, about my life. Even if Amanda hadn’t been nearly bankrupted by her trip to the hospital, I might’ve called Paul Gerson at some point just to take my mind off things. But I didn’t owe him that information. “Yes, I would. I’m sorry about your loss, and would like to help you find your sister’s killer, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to bare my soul to you.”

  “This might be a short meeting, then. I’m eager to get your help, but I need to know you’re not planning on exploiting my family.”

  “Exploit them how?”

  Gerson turned his hands over, palm up. “My family has been a part of the DC social and political landscape for decades. Wendy’s death was horrific and sensational and we’ve already had to fend off the local press. I’m not going to help the media make a circus out of our tragedy.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not interested in that, either. Check my references with the DC police force. Anyone who’s been there for the last few years will testify to my discretion.”

  “No reporters, no blog posts, no tell-all books?”

  Question: Would it really be that hard to scare up an extra nine grand on my own? Answer: Yes. I took a deep breath. “Scout’s honor
. The only money I expect to make is from you. The only one who will see a report will be you. Feel free to include that in a contract.”

  “All right, I’ll do that,” Gerson said, making a note on a small desk pad. He put down the pen and looked up. “With that out of the way, I suppose this can be our first meeting.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your first step? Do you interview me? Talk to the police?”

  I relaxed. This kind of talk was more in my wheelhouse. “I’ll catch up with the MPDC soon, but right now I need to know more about your sister, a starting point for her life so I can trace it to others that were connected to it.”

  “Wendy wasn’t much for confessing her innermost thoughts to anyone,” Gerson said doubtfully.

  “Those would be nice to have if we could get them, but I’m talking much more basic stuff, at least at first,” I said. “If you’ve got the time right now, just tell me about her.”

  “That’s it? Just talk about my sister?”

  “It’s a start. Murders that aren’t robbery or gang-related are almost always committed by someone the victim knew, and—as I told you over the phone—the way in which Wendy was killed was very personal. The best place for me to start is with colleagues, friends, and family members.”

  “There was that killing on the New York City subway a few years ago,” he pointed out. “That was random.”

  “There are crazy people everywhere,” I said. “But crazy is, by far, the exception as far as motivations for murder are concerned. And, if that’s the assumption we’re going under, then I can’t help you anyway. There are too many possibilities in that scenario for one man to cover.”

  “Then what can you do for us?”

  “Finding random lunatics is what the police are good at. They’ve got the resources and the manpower to sift through the reports and accumulated piles of data that would lead them to a John Doe. I’m more useful going down the other path, the assumption that Wendy knew her killer. I can knock on doors, interview people, eliminate the known quantities until we wind up with the truth.”

  “Your clear, steady gaze will force a confession out of the killer?” Gerson asked. His tone, while not quite mocking, had a twist to it I didn’t like.

  “It’s been known to happen,” I said and looked at him steadily. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  We stared at each other for a minute, then a smile the Cheshire cat would’ve been proud of spread across his face. “Good. I didn’t want to hire a pushover.”

  Once I’d proven my bona fides to Gerson, we got down to the business of dissecting Wendy’s life. I broke out my notebook and started writing. Much like her brother, she’d been sent to some of the best schools in the country, had moved on to advanced degrees—in law, rather than business—and settled into a rewarding professional life in Washington, DC as an attorney for one of the area’s largest law firms specializing in corporate real estate.

  “Married?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “No. No children.”

  “Was she straight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “None recently.”

  “Stalkers? Unwanted attention from anyone?”

  He shook his head. “Not that she told me.”

  “Did you know her friends or colleagues?”

  Gerson scratched at the arm of his chair. “Not really.”

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “We both lived in DC, but Wendy and I both have…had…very demanding jobs. It wasn’t unusual for us to go months without seeing each other.”

  “But you know enough about her sex life to attest that she was straight?”

  “I didn’t need to see her every night to know that, Mr. Singer,” Gerson said tightly.

  “All right. So you weren’t involved with your sister socially?”

  Gerson cooled down. “Correct.”

  “Do you have a photo of her?”

  “I thought you saw her on the platform,” Gerson said.

  “Only the barest glimpse,” I said. “She was just another commuter to me. I remember she was smartly dressed. Busy, looking at her phone, although that describes most people these days. I suppose she seemed impatient, unhappy to wait. Places to go, people to see. Eager to get to it.”

  Gerson smiled slightly. “That was Wendy. For the record, she was quite good looking. Here.” He reached over and plucked a photo from a modern-looking picture holder that appeared to be a bunch of paper clips glued to the ends of straws and handed it to me. I took it. The picture had been snapped as she was looking away from the camera. Long brown hair with auburn tones hung around her face in waves and her mouth was slightly open. Not quite a smile, but welcoming. Her expression was pleased and expectant, maybe surprised. It was a wonderful picture, though it would always make me wonder what or who she was looking at.

  Gerson continued. “A model’s looks, but she could’ve cared less about her appearance. Work was too important. She was immersed in it—morning, noon, and night. I’m not surprised you got the impression she was impatient. A task like waiting for a Metro train would’ve driven her crazy. A total waste of time.”

  “She was driven, then?”

  “Whenever she asked me a question, she would snap her fingers if I didn’t answer her quickly enough. ‘Don’t be stupid’ was her favorite phrase with her family and friends. She leveled it at me all the time. Even with that”—he waved idly at the wall where his diplomas were hung—“kind of pedigree. She was summa cum laude at Yale and Georgetown Law. Made her own investments—she didn’t trust me—and had a million in the bank by the time she was thirty-five. Driven is a bit of an understatement.”

  “Do you think that attitude carried over at work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re interested in finding whoever killed her. Aggressive and ruthless behavior in the workplace often sparks a similar response in others. In other words, it’s a good motive. Especially if her outlook cost someone a job or a pile of money.”

  “I really don’t know,” Gerson said, surprised, as if he hadn’t entertained the thought before. “Wendy usually reserved her scorn for her family, to be honest. She didn’t treat our parents much better than she did me. But…no. Wendy was ambitious, but she was the consummate professional. She valued being good at what she did much more than making money or climbing the corporate ladder.”

  “Uh-huh.” I wrote ballbuster in my notes and underlined it twice. “Speaking of family, I’ll need to meet with your parents.”

  He nodded, plucked a business card from a desktop holder, and leaned across his desk to hand it to me. It read PAUL GERSON – CERTIFIED FINANCIAL ADVISOR in silver, letter-pressed characters. The material of the card felt of a higher quality than my shirt.

  “Just call me to arrange a meeting. And, please be considerate, Mr. Singer. They’re as determined to find Wendy’s killer as I am, but they’re still grieving.”

  “I understand,” I said, pocketing the card. “Can you get me an introduction at Wendy’s workplace? Help me short-circuit any runaround they might put me through?”

  “You’re expecting trouble?”

  “Attorneys—especially corporate ones—don’t let you in the door on the first knock. It would be nice not to waste my time.”

  “I see. Yes, I can make some calls.”

  “Let me know once you’ve made contact and I’ll head over there.”

  He nodded, thoughtful. “What else will you be looking into?”

  “Did she rent or own a home?”

  “She rented a condo near Capitol Hill, but the police went over it for evidence and then we cleaned it out. My mother said she couldn’t stand to do it later, so it’s already been empty for a week or more.”

  I grimaced. “Okay. Most people spend half their lives at the office, so the work angle is a priority. Tal
king to her coworkers might lead to something. If it doesn’t, I might go to her condo anyway and knock on some doors. See if she had any secret admirers or jealous neighbors. Then spread out from there. Anywhere she might’ve had personal contact with someone on a routine or even infrequent basis counts. The gym, the grocery store, the place where she got her coffee every morning before work. The dry cleaners, the Chinese takeout on the corner, her mailman.”

  Gerson blinked a few times. “I didn’t think about all of the possibilities. It seems like…an impossible task.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you can understand the attitude of the detectives better, now.” He grunted, not convinced. I guess that was a bridge too far.

  I closed my notebook and made those little gestures that indicated we were finished. “I think that’s about it. I have your number and email address if I need anything more. Get me that introduction at her workplace and I’ll be able to start immediately.”

  Gerson looked at me archly. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Singer?”

  I froze in an almost-standing position, my hands on the arms of my chair, elbows bent. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t you want to get paid?”

  I relaxed back into my seat. “Yes. Sure.”

  Gerson pulled out a checkbook from a desk drawer, then plucked a silver pen from its holder. “How much?”

  “How about nine thousand dollars?” I asked, joking.

  He frowned. “All at once? Isn’t the standard more like half now, half when we’ve agreed you’ve solved the case?”

  “Ah. I…okay,” I said, at a loss. Should I stop him? “That would be fine.”

  “Good,” he said, then bent to the task of writing a check for a cool forty-five hundred dollars. “This should tide you over. Do you have a contract you can send? No? My assistant can email you a boilerplate with some basic language, if you like. If Wendy’s case drags out, we can renegotiate the terms. And, while I understand that there may be no real answer, if you do happen to find her killer and help bring him to trial, there’s a five-thousand-dollar bonus in it for you.”